


Because You're Mine

by Mirukane



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anthropomorphic, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28187289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirukane/pseuds/Mirukane
Summary: A repost of "Victorian 1." Very slightly edited from the original Pastebin version posted to /trash/.
Kudos: 2





	1. Second Chance

**Author's Note:**

> A repost of "Victorian 1." Very slightly edited from the original Pastebin version posted to /trash/.

The lift rattled and rocked as it descended. The attendant forced a smoker's cough into his handkerchief. The tall hooded figure beside him peered past the gate, into the dank corridor beyond. The nauseating stench of waste wafted into the lift, accompanied by the groans of the wretched souls whose cells lined the halls, but neither the attendant nor his charge seemed to notice. At the fourth floor, the lift shuddered to a stop, and the attendant wrenched the gate open.

"Like the boss told you, we got this boy in just last week," the old boar rasped as he lit a lantern, then led the way. "Exactly the sort you asked for. Short, scrawny, hardly any fight in him."

They approached a cell, ignoring jeers and pleas from those nearby. A young human lay on some straw in the corner, curled up and facing the wall.

"Get up, ya poof! You've got a visitor," the attendant barked. He turned back to the figure. "No diseases, not gelded neither; boss made sure to check. Kept him locked up separate, even, to keep the others off his pretty little arse."

The boy slowly rose to his feet and stood in the middle of his cell. His head hanged, and his smock was matted with filth. The hooded figure stepped forward and extended a hand hidden by a pristine cotton glove, and as she spoke, her voice was smooth, clear, and commanding. "Come here, boy. Let me see your teeth."

His steps were shaky as he obliged. The attendant started to protest when he opened his mouth, but found his better judgment when the figure’s glove poked and pried at the prisoner's face. The boy kept his eyes down until she finished examining his mouth, then grasped his jaw, pointing his face up at hers. Her blue eyes gleamed faintly beneath the hood as they locked with his.

"He'll do."

The attendant fumbled with his key ring for a moment before pushing the door aside. "Looks like you got a new lease on life, boy."

Half an hour later, he was still in shock. He saw the papers stamped, saw the money change hands, but the boy was still completely lost. His new owner directed him into a carriage, and he shrunk against the opposite corner as she took her seat, keeping his eyes down. Once they had made some distance from the prison, she lowered her hood and shook out a long black mane. His eyes flicked up to look at her face, which did not evade her notice.

"A shy one, are you?" The white mare smirked at him, then looked out at the dull, gray sky. "I'll not waste my breath on an introduction if you will not speak."

"M-Martin," he choked, then cleared his throat. "My name is Martin."

She smiled at him. "I am Lady Victoria Howclair, but the specifics do not matter for now. I am your lady, and your life, dear boy, is mine."

Martin peered out at the murky skies. The sun's glow through the clouds was far from warming, but it was welcome. "I thought I would never see the sky again..."

Victoria chuckled. "I trust you won't make me regret taking you from that hole."

The carriage rolled over dirt that eventually became stone, and the surrounding hills became buildings. The sun was setting and a clock tower chimed six as they passed the city gates, and Martin climbed up on his seat to get a better look. Victoria watched him with amusement.

"Never seen the city before?"

"No, ma'am, I never left the farm before, erm..." His face fell.

She gave him a curious look. "We'll speak of that later."

He peeked over the window's edge, taking it all in. The carriage eventually stopped outside a great house, and Victoria opened the door to get out.

"This way, little one," she said, and Martin scampered after her. The carriage pulled away, and she led him up and inside. His eyes widened to take in the wondrous luxury around him.

"Welcome home. Supper will be delivered within the hour, so you will bathe before then," she said, leading him to the second to last door in the hall. "The tub is full, and a fresh smock is waiting on the shelf. Put your old one in the bin by the wall. You will be clean, dry, and dressed in the parlor in no more than forty minutes. Understand?"

Martin took a moment to realize she was speaking to him. "Y-yes, ma'am." He gave her a simple sort of bow before passing behind the screen to undress.

"We'll work on your form later." Victoria smirked, then left back into the hall.

The little human sat in the tub and mulled things over. With Victoria out of the room, he was able to think, but he could not decide what to think. He resigned himself to compliance, for whatever awaited him here was surely better than rotting in a cell. He scrubbed himself from tip to toes, making himself the cleanest he had been since the day he was born. The water was opaque with soil and suds when he finished, and he marvelled at the softness of the towel left for him. He did not know how long he had taken to bathe, but he dressed hastily before poking around the halls.

Though the house was surely fine, there was a distinct lack of finery. Oil lamps kept the hall lit, and while plain, the walls and floor were clean and smooth, except for the footprints Martin had left on his way in. Unsure of where the parlor was, he opened the first door he saw, revealing a room lined with shelves, each containing more books than he had ever seen in one place. He tried the next, and found a staircase leading down, and a faint odor of rotting eggs. The third door must have been a kitchen, with pots and pans hanging from a ceiling fixture. The fourth was open, and in this room was a roaring fireplace, before which sat Victoria, with another chair opposite her and a tea set on the table between.

"Are you acquainted with my house yet, boy?" Her expression was severe for a moment, and softened quickly. "Oh, don't give me that look. You were hardly sneaking about. Did you remember to wash behind your ears?"

"Y-yes, ma'am."

"Good. I would have drowned you in the bathwater if you hadn't," she said, before sipping her tea. Martin's eyes widened.

"Oh, would that you could see your own face, boy. Come, sit. I'll pour you a cup of tea, just this once."

He walked over quietly, keeping his head bowed.

"I'm sure you have questions, little one," she stated, and poured his cup. "Ask them."

Several seconds passed while he held his cup and saucer. "What's going on?"

"You and I are chatting over tea in the parlor," Victoria immediately replied. "We are becoming more acquainted while we wait for supper to be delivered."

"But why am I here?"

"These chairs are the most comfortable in the house," she said. "I want to impress upon my new servant the standard of comfort to which I am accustomed, and which I will expect you to maintain."

He gave her a puzzled look. "I'm your servant?"

"Yes. Are you familiar with the law regarding your prior situation?" she asked.

"Prior...?"

"Well, then," she sighed. "Your crimes had earned you a life sentence. Your right to life was forfeit. Ordinarily, you would have been executed, or spent the rest of your unnaturally short life behind bars. However, I was in need of a new servant, and wrote the warden to notify me if one such as yourself was imprisoned. He notified me, and I purchased you." She sipped her tea again.

"But I'm... I'm a farmhand," Martin objected, "I only know how to grow grains."

"You are a farmhand no more. You are my servant. You will do as I say, when I say. If you fail, you will be corrected. If you continue to fail, you will be punished."

"Oh," he responded, then finally sipped his tea. He scalded his tongue, and recoiled from the cup.

"Provided you can follow my instruction, you will be housed, clothed, and fed with greater luxury than you have ever known. If you become unduly bothersome, however, you will not fear being returned to your sentence, for I will kill you myself."

Her nonchalance chilled Martin to the bone.

"Oh, don't look so frightened. That's not a threat, it's a promise. I will tolerate stupidity, but not insubordination. If you commit no crimes, you have little to fear from me." She drank again, her face neutral. "So tell me, what were your crimes?"

"M-murder."

"How many?"

"One."

"Would you kill again?"

"No! I... no."

She took a long drink and looked him over. "What if I told you to?"

The question made Martin squirm.

"Oh, well. Most of your tasks are much less dramatic. Cleaning laundry, cooking, polishing silverware and the like. Beginning tomorrow, you will earn your living here by doing those things I would rather not waste my time with. So, savor this evening. I expect you to make every day just as comfortable for me."

He stared at his teacup for a while, puzzling over his uncertain future, before a knock came at the door.

"That is our supper." Victoria put her teacup aside and rose from her chair. "Come, little one."

The ram at the door greeted them with a pair of boxes and an aroma that was heavenly to Martin.

Victoria pulled a coin purse from her pocket and fished around in it. "Take those into the dining room, boy. It's the second door on the right."

Martin nodded, and took the boxes from the ram, who made small talk with Victoria. He placed the boxes on the table before lighting the room. It was just as finely plain as the rest of the house, with simple chairs in pristine condition and a dark red cloth over the table. A single shelf on the wall was home to a wine cask and some crystal glasses, but he barely noticed this, and instead gave the boxes his attention. They each held a hefty meat pie, buttered carrots, and a fresh bun drizzled with honey, all sitting on a wooden plate. Tears welled in his eyes, and he wiped them away with his palms when Victoria entered.

"Is something the matter, little one?"

"This is-is feast food," he half-sobbed. "I've only eaten three molding bread crusts in the last week, and now..." His whole body shook as he tried to steady his breathing.

Victoria pulled him to her in a half-hug. "Let's eat before it becomes cold, hm?"

Martin held back tears as he nearly ate himself sick, while Victoria gently chided him on proper use of utensils. Her brow shot up when he licked his plate clean. "Your enthusiasm is amusing, at least," she hummed. "I suppose I should show you to your room next."

He blinked several times. "My room?"

She snickered. "Did you think I would share my room with you so soon? Come, up the stairs."

She led him to the plainest room in the house. A window was hidden behind linen drapes. A small bed stood in the corner, with a cotton blanket, feather pillow, and a real mattress. There was a trunk at the foot of the bed, open and empty save another clean smock. A plain desk and stool were at the opposite wall, and a candle rested in its holder on the desk's surface. As humble as it appeared compared to everything else in the house, the sight still brought Martin to his knees. He wrapped his arm around Victoria's legs, barely choking back sobs.

"Th-thank you," he managed.

"Stand up," she told him. "That is unbecoming."

He rose and wandered around his room for a bit, absorbing it. Victoria checked her pocket watch, then cleared her throat.

"I'll be in my study for an hour or two, then I'm going to bed. The toilet is directly beneath the stairs. If you need something before bedtime, feel free to ask. Otherwise, I'll come to wake you at dawn."

She closed the door behind her. Martin explored his room with his hands to reassure himself that it was all real, but the moment his fingers touched the bed, the weight of the day crashed onto his shoulders. He was only able to pull the blanket over himself before falling asleep.

He woke in the night to the clock chiming four, in fierce need of the toilet. The moon shone through the window, and in his haze, he nearly fell down the stairs. He took a moment to figure out how to flush, then made his way back upstairs. His hand was on his doorknob, but then he heard a thumping down the hall, and saw a light beneath Victoria’s door. He inched closer and heard her voice. He pressed his ear to the door, and then the din stopped. A tense several seconds passed, then the door flew open. Victoria's mane was a mess, gown crooked, and her features irate and red. She seized Martin by the neck.

"What are you doing," she huffed, "waiting for an invitation?"

"N-no ma'am, I heard--I didn't know, I was curious!" he stammered.

"Curious?" Her eyes narrowed. "How old are you, boy?"

"I'm-I'm-don't know!"

Her brow furrowed, and she looked him up and down. Though he was small, his body was hard and thin, no doubt due to a poor diet and a life of labor. Twenty, at the most. She released him with a sneer. "Do not stand outside my room unbidden. You will know if I desire your company. Now go back to bed."

He staggered back into his room and leapt into bed, and Victoria stood in her doorway a while longer, staring at his door and thinking. The remaining night was restful for neither.


	2. A Moment of Weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A repost of "Victorian 2." Slightly edited from the original Pastebin version posted to /trash/.

The moon shone through the window, bathing the room in its pale glow. The young man lay naked in his bed, restless despite his long day. The doorknob slowly turned, and he raised his head to see his owner opening the door, similarly undressed. She stepped forward, and her bare form glowed in the moonlight. He watched with wide eyes as she came closer and placed a hand on his chest. The mare slid her hand across him, feeling his skin, feeling his body, feeling his heart pound, feeling his core tremble. Her fingers trailed down his belly. He gripped the sheets and gritted his teeth, and then he awoke in a cold sweat.

The sky was tinged with the coming dawn. The door was closed, and there was nobody in the room but Martin. He checked himself, and found himself mostly in order. Once he was calm, he stood up and dressed.

Later that morning, their coach rolled and bumped along cobbled stone, passing the rabble through the city. Martin looked out over the mid-morning bustle with subdued curiosity, and Victoria watched him. In five short days, the wonder in his eyes had dimmed only slightly. He flopped back into his seat and faced the mare.

“Where are we going, Lady Victoria?”

“A seamstress, dear boy. A smock may suffice within my house, but you need proper clothing if I am to take you out and about regularly.”

Martin pulled his smock taut to get a better look at it. It was slightly wrinkled, and a little stained by last night’s dishwater, but it was one of the finest pieces of clothing he had ever owned. Still, it was plain compared to the pantsuit Victoria wore. It was unusual, he thought, for such a lady to wear pants, but the past few days had taught him that he knew nothing about the rich. He opened his mouth as though to say something, but the words never passed his lips.

Victoria’s practiced smile did not waver when she watched his face. For but a second, she wished for him to speak again. Instead, she forced herself to look outside, and she spied their destination. “Oh, we’ve arrived.”

They disembarked from the carriage. Martin was impressed by the facade, with intricate signage and an alluring window display featuring a smart red coat with long tails. He might have stared at it a while, but Victoria nudged him along. A bell rang as they entered, and the shelves inside were lined neatly with folded clothing and bolts of fabric. Martin’s attention was drawn from the mannequins’ checkered pants to a box of ornate buttons, and the vacant counter on which they sat. Victoria checked her watch and clicked her tongue, irritated.

“Hello? Mrs. Kensington?” she called.

“Oh—one moment!” a shrill voice returned. A moment passed, and a nervous, bespectacled ewe emerged from the back room. “Ah, Lady Howclair! Here for your appointment, yes? So sorry to keep you waiting!”

Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, of course.”

“I was just replacing the buttons on the baron’s shirt, you see...”

Her ears swiveled forward. “The baron?”

“Yes, the baron,” a man echoed, rounding the doorway into the room. He was a gray fox, with a grin on his face and a gleam in his eye, dressed more smartly than all the mannequins. He puffed out his chest and gestured to some shining silver buttons down its center. “Aren’t they lovely, Victoria?”

“Of course, milord,” she replied with a curt bow, which Martin clumsily mirrored. “Mrs. Kensington has done fine work, as always.”

“Hasn’t she? I can hardly wait for the matching cufflinks.” He canted his head, noticing the boy. “Who’s this, then?”

“A servant, milord. Beneath your notice, but at your call as much as mine,” the mare said, straightening her posture.

“Ah, yes, the baker, Thomas, he told me you had a new one. I knew we would meet sooner or later.”

“Yes… Martin, this is Baron Harold Loveway, railroad magnate, owner of Loveway Transportation, and my… benefactor.” The word lingered in her mouth like the bitter taste of turpentine.

“Ah, Martin.” Loveway leaned in. The gleam in his eye turned predatory, and his grin was suddenly cheaper than the wooden toggles on Martin’s smock. He bowed again, unsure of how to react to the baron’s judging gaze. “Not much to see, is there? I’m certain Victoria will find a use for you.” Loveway returned his attention to her. “Well, it was a pleasure bumping into you, Victoria, but I should be on my way. I’m having tea with a viscount this afternoon, and I’ve yet to pick up his gift. I trust you’ll wait for my letter. Farewell.”

“Of course. Farewell, milord,” she bade. Her eyes dripped with venom as she stared after him, until Mrs. Kensington cleared her throat to draw her attention.

“So, your appointment?”

“Oh, yes. I need a suit for this one, to make him presentable. Nothing outlandishly particular.”

“Of course, milady,” the ewe replied, and led Martin into the back. She stood him up on a platform and whipped her measuring tape around him, jotting down notes. “Color?”

“Gray.”

“Material?”

“Cotton will suffice.”

“Breeches?”

“No, pants.”

“Tie?”

“A narrow red ribbon.”

“I see.” The seamstress raised an eyebrow, then hesitated with the tape before Martin’s waist. “Shall I measure his... erm...”

“Hm?”

“You know,” she blushed. “His willy?” The mention caused him, too, to turn red.

“Oh, please,” Victoria laughed. “It was just that once. And you saw it yourself; you cannot deny that boy needed custom underpants.”

The embarrassment quickly faded from the ewe’s face. “Right, then. Your taste is impeccable, milady. I’ll have the suit ready in two weeks’ time.”

“I wait with bated breath, Mrs. Kensington.”

She beckoned Martin, and they left. Rather than hail a coach, they walked along and ducked into an alley, where Victoria produced a pouch of inky black powder and rubbed a streak across her nose. She turned to Martin, and then suddenly he was alone in the alley. He rubbed his eyes, then looked around.

“L… Lady Victoria?” he called.

“Not so loud, boy,” she replied, suddenly back where she was… except she hadn’t actually vanished to begin with. “Put this on your face, and we can continue. Or would you rather hold my hand?” She gave him a wry smirk.

He was ill at ease. He held his palm over hers for a moment before taking the pouch. Her face became neutral again as he smeared the fine powder over the bridge of his nose. They were soon moving again at a fair clip. The streets narrowed, the population thinned, and the buildings fell into disrepair as they walked, but nobody seemed to notice either of them even as they entered shadier parts of the city. Martin began to ask where they were going, but Victoria held a finger to her lips.

Eventually, they came to an inconspicuous shop. When Victoria opened the door, a blast of sharp fumes hit Martin’s face. Inside, the walls were lined with shelves full of bottles and pouches of varied and unidentifiable substances. The dim lights filtered through an acrid smoke that was still in the air until Victoria pushed through it. The graying old stoat behind the counter was reading a book, oblivious to her approach. She cleared her throat, and he jolted in his seat, finally aware.

“Back so soon, Mrs. Howclair? I was not expecting you.”

“I did not expect so, either. Do you have the usual in stock?”

The stoat slowly rose and leaned on the counter. “Not in the usual numbers, I’m afraid. The herptile boy, he was short on salamander, so I’ve only got half your order.”

She huffed, but set her irritation aside. “I need it tonight, so it will have to do.” She drew a handful of coins and passed them to the clerk.

He stowed them in a drawer, then reached for his cane. “Right, one moment, dear,” he rasped, then hobbled around the shelves. He took a bottle here, a pouch there, and put them all in a burlap sack, then handed it off to Victoria. She gave it to Martin, and the stoat blinked, then cocked an eyebrow at her. “A servant? You’re keeping him awfully close, ma’am.”

“A murderer,” she stated. “He is no such liability.” Martin winced.

“Oh, I see.” He limped back behind his counter. “I’ll take your word for it. I know you’ll be careful.”

“Of course. Farewell,” she replied, and turned to leave.

“Farewell,” Martin echoed, and followed.

The stoat waved to them, then sat down with his book.

Victoria led the way to one of the main streets and brushed the dust off their faces before calling a driver. The ride home was uneventful, and they reached the Howclair house as the bells tolled four.

Once inside, she took the bag. She instructed Martin with a terse voice: “Resume your chores. I will be in the basement; do not enter the basement. A courier will knock on the door around six with a letter for me; call me from atop the stairs, and do not open the letter. I will expect supper at seven. Understand?”

“Courier at six, food at seven. Understood, ma’am.”

“Good.” Her hooves clicked down the hall as he began his duties.

He had just finished adding wood to the stove when the knock came at the door. The courier’s shirt bore a coat of arms that matched the wax seal on the envelope, and he gave a smile and waved goodbye before promptly leaving. The seal was Loveway’s, of course; Martin had seen it on stagecoaches and on the banner in the foyer, but didn’t realize its significance until now. He took the letter to the end of the hall and opened the stairwell door.

“Lady Victoria, the letter...”

The stench of something burning rose up the stairwell. He took a step down the stairs, then heard a door open, followed by Victoria’s hooves on the stone. She came around the corner and saw him on the stairs, then affixed a leer on him.

“Top of the stairway, boy,” she growled. She took the envelope with a hand smudged with dark grease and opened it to peek inside, then scowled at its contents. “Alright, back to work,” she groaned, and went back into the basement.

Martin returned to the kitchen and began work on supper. The pantry was running low on meat, so he made a roux with yesterday’s broth and chopped some vegetables, then added the salted meat and some thyme to the mixture. The house was soon filled with a heartily appetizing fragrance, and Martin happily stirred it to bubbling, then poured it into a bowl with some bread as the bell rang seven.

He waited for Victoria to begin eating, taking only a bite to tide himself over. Their bowls had both cooled completely by the time she came up the stairs, face dark, hands coated in grime. She sat at the table and ate in silence. Her features softened, but only slightly. She emptied her bowl, then turned to Martin.

“Prepare a bath. Use the soap in the yellow jar. I need to wash today away.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, and stood.

He took their empty dishes to the kitchen before doing so. Running the bath took little time, and Martin placed a fresh towel beside the tub. Victoria said nothing as she passed him in the hall, and as he started on the dishes he heard her climb into the suds. With no specific instruction, he cleaned the kitchen, then wrapped up the rest of his chores for the day, and prepared for bed. He had not laid in bed for an hour before she called him. He groaned a little and put his smock back on.

The light in the parlor was dimmed, so it took Martin a moment to notice she wore only a towel. His cheeks burned, and he wrenched his gaze to the floor. “Lady Victoria, how may I—ahem—be of service?”

“Come here, little one.”

He could hear his heartbeat as he approached. The wine cask was on the table, he noticed, and the red liquid dripped from the bottom of the goblet in her hand. His eyes followed her arm up to her shoulder, neck, face, with her damp mane fallen before eyes that were still as dark as they were during supper. He again tore his eyes away, and lowered his head.

“You seem uncomfortable. What is the matter? Do you need some wine?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You are not looking at me. Is my visage so unpleasant?”

“No, that’s not it at all,” he protested.

“Well?” She stood up and turned completely toward him. Her towel fell, and her bare body stunned him into silence. “Look at me, then, and let me look at you.”

His eyes darted across her. She was shapely, in a way not obvious when clothed. Her chest and hips were ample, her body well-proportioned, and soft due to her comfortable lifestyle, but her eyes burned a hole through Martin. He clutched the hem of his smock and trembled, acutely aware of how much larger she was as the mare bore down on him. She pushed him into a chair and held his head against the back.

“Let me look at your mouth,” she murmured, and pried his lips open with her thumb. He offered little resistance, and she ran her digit beneath his lips. “What curious mouths you humans have,” she panted. “Perfect for kissing and sucking. I want to feel it.”

She grabbed his skull from behind and shoved his face against her abdomen. Martin reluctantly kissed her midriff, and a moan rose from deep in her throat. She straddled his waist, and he struggled to keep his smock down while she forced his mouth onto her breast.

“Martin… you have been so chaste since I brought you here, but no more,” she hissed. “Tonight, you will know me.”

His eyes widened. “I… I don’t want to.”

She stiffened, and her face hardened. “You’re one of those girly types, then? No matter.” She lifted him up and sat in his place, pinned him face-down across her lap, and yanked his smock up over his backside. “Your rear is appropriately soft for such a boy,” she said, and squeezed a cheek.

“That’s not what I meant!” he squeaked. He turned to see her slathering a finger with her tongue, and then moaned as she slowly pushed it into his bottom.

“You certainly sound like you’re enjoying it, though.” She crooked her finger into his prostate, and he moaned again in spite of himself. “See?”

“S-stop!” he cried, and scrambled off her, tumbling to the floor. He crawled up against the fireplace, then seized the poker and tugged his smock down over his thighs.

She sat back in the chair, eyes searing with fury. “Are you going to kill me, then?”

His chest heaved, and his whole body shook. He slowly stood, and put the poker back.

“Go to bed before I strangle you, boy.”

He fled up the stairs. She sat in the parlor for a while, staring at the dregs in her goblet before going to bed.


	3. The Baron's Estate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Repost of "Victorian 3." Slightly edited from the original Pastebin version posted to /trash/.

A week passed, and the days followed a similar pattern: Martin would tend to his chores as usual, and Victoria would spend the evening in the basement, then demand a bath and wine. Neither of them directly acknowledged that night. Martin was quieter, and responded more promptly. Victoria was gentler, and managed her frustrations alone. To Martin’s chagrin, this self-care kept him awake long into the night. Even his sleep was no reprieve, for he dreamed of her form looming over him, assaulting him, devouring him. For a few brief seconds each morning he wondered where he was, before the memories came back in a rush.

Halfway through their breakfast, a courier brought another letter from Loveway. Victoria scanned it as the man departed, then crushed it in her fist.

“Brush your hair and wash your hands,” she snarled. “We’re leaving shortly.”

They took a coach to the station and boarded the nine-o’-clock north. The car was comfortable, though Martin had to swallow his breakfast again once the train started moving.

“We’re answering Loveway’s summons,” Victoria told him. “Stay close, stay quiet, and do absolutely anything he tells you to.” She scowled at the passing countryside. “He is a dangerous man.”

“I see,” he muttered. He noticed her ear was flicking repeatedly, and her hands were tightly clasped. She tapped her foot gently, but stopped when she realized Martin was looking at her. He frowned, and followed her gaze to the passing hills.

They disembarked in a small town, surrounded by plains superficially familiar to Martin: mostly unremarkable, but reminiscent of his dull hometown. Victoria did not tarry to say hello as they passed the folk in town, and he struggled to keep up with her longer strides as she marched toward Loveway estate.

The manor itself was grand, easily twice or thrice the size of the Howclair house. Servants bustled about outside, tending to the lawn and gardens. A molly at the door greeted them with a bow and let them in. “Milord is in the parlor, Lady Howclair,” she said, “and he’s in a foul mood today...”

“I can imagine,” she replied, and led Martin through the foyer. He was awestruck by the opulence, and slowed to look at it all: great glass windows; floors of smooth white tile; walls papered with intricate floral print and decorated with plaques, paintings, and ornaments. A pair of jennies dusted the baubles, and gave no attention to the mare and man passing beneath their lord’s banner.

“Martin,” Victoria called, voice somber. “Stay close.”

He heeled quickly, and followed her down the hall. She stopped before a door and drew a deep breath before rapping at it. After a moment, a billy let them in.

Everything about Loveway’s parlor was large, in keeping with the rest of the house. The near side was dominated by what Martin vaguely recognized as a billiards table. On the far side, the horns of some great beast were mounted over the hearth, with a gun below, and tall windows flanking the fireplace let the mid-morning sun in. In this glow the baron sat, sipping a cup of tea. He smiled at them both, and it filled Martin’s stomach with a heavy unease.

“Victoria, please have a seat.”

She sat across the table from him, and Martin stood beside her. The old goat poured a cup for Victoria, who accepted it graciously.

“Would you put another pot on, Timothy?” Loveway gave a command, disguised as a request.

“Of course, Milord,” the billy rasped, and left the room, closing the door.

The air was tense. Loveway took another sip from his cup, which Victoria mirrored. He then set his cup and saucer on the table, and this, too, she mimicked.

“I received a letter from one of Count Harlock’s servants last night,” the baron said. Victoria went rigid. He continued, “The deal was made. Starting next month, Harlock Steel will supply track exclusively to South Plains Freight. Can you tell me why that is?”

“...I am unsure, Baron.”

“Unsure?” He sounded curious. “As I understood it, the count was feeling under the weather lately, but according to a servant, he has been healthier than usual!” he took a letter from the table and began to read it, “’On the last night before his meeting with the chief, Viscount Harlock was possessed by a strange manner, and took his lady to bed with him quite early. They engaged one another well into the night, caring not that their servants could not have possibly ignored their joyous cacophony. The next morning, Lady Harlock was difficult to rouse, but the count was unusually vigorous.’”

He folded the letter and put it back on the table. “I am disappointed, Victoria. You assured me the viscount would utterly lack the capacity to even meet the South Plains chief.”

“My apologies—“

“Oh, save your breath, Victoria, I have no use for apologies. It seems clear to me that you are too preoccupied with your new toy to do your job.” His disinterested eyes fell on Martin. “Come here boy, and take off that frumpy rag.”

Martin glanced at Victoria, who nodded subtly, before he obeyed.

“God, you’re such a waif. Your mistress is so transparent. Turn around, and kneel.”

He again obeyed, and his unease was vindicated as the baron grasped his hair with a crushing grip. Martin yelped, and looked to Victoria, whose growing concern was visible.

“I’ve got to buy track from somebody else now, Victoria. It’ll be a struggle to keep up with South Plains’s expansion now, you know, if I can’t get some other leg up on them.”

“Milord—“

“Tell me, why should I subsidize a witch and her plaything if she cannot deliver results on such a pivotal occasion?”

Martin turned to look at the baron, confused.

“Oh, you didn’t know, boy? Yes, if word got out, you’d both be burned alive! Frankly, I’m amazed I was the first to sniff her out. Must be my nose for secrets. However, it’s plain as day that Victoria has a penchant for little men like yourself.”

The billy returned with a steaming kettle, and placed it on the tea tray before taking the first away.

“Good man, Timothy. Right on cue.” Loveway took the kettle and raised it over Martin.

“Milord, I have served you for a decade! Surely the occasional mistake is inevitable?” Victoria pleaded.

“Of course, and you must learn from this mistake as from the others.” His calm voice sent shivers up Martin’s spine, met by the scorching pain of boiling water splashing onto his back as the baron tilted the kettle.

He shrieked and shook, but the baron’s grasp kept him from twisting out of the scalding stream. Searing rivulets curled around his sides and soaked into the waist of his shorts. Victoria’s fists clenched the arms of her chair, but her tongue was still while she watched her benefactor empty the pot over her servant. He shook the last drops from the spout and released Martin, leaving him to flop onto the rug.

“It hurts, doesn’t it? Remember this the next time your mistress becomes distracted from a task given to her.” He turned to Timothy, saying, “see them out, will you? I think the boy may need some assistance.”

The goat helped Martin back into his smock and through the foyer. A coach was waiting outside for them, and delivered them to the station. Victoria’s face was dark, but she handled Martin delicately as they boarded the ten-thirty back to the city. He hissed as his back pressed against his seat, and as the train departed he kept his eyes forward, while Victoria repeatedly glanced over to him with plain worry.

On several occasions, Victoria opened her mouth as though to begin speaking, but each time the words failed to pass her lips. Martin’s fingers clenched against the cushioned seats as the train’s gentle bouncing shot lances across his back. Neither spoke to the other as they returned.

A coach took them home, and Martin paused only for Victoria to unlock the door before walking stiffly upstairs, where he gingerly removed his smock and laid on his bed. The basement door creaked open, and he scowled into his pillow. Victoria’s hooves clicked up the staircase a few minutes later, and he braced himself for a confrontation.

As she stood in the door, the afternoon sun shone on her pantsuit, which bore fresh smears of some foul-looking substance. She approached with a rag and a jar of some salve, with thick oily globs dripping from its mouth.

“Please, sit on this,” she said, gesturing to the stool at his desk. “I do not want to stain your sheets with it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is that some magic?”

She sighed. “Yes. It will soothe your burns.”

“Why should I believe that?”

She sat the jar on his desk and pinched the bridge of her snout. “I want to help you. What possible reason would I have to lie to you?”

“How should I know? I don’t know you.”

“What attempt have you made to know me?” she shouted, and his blood ran cold. “I have only spoken truth to you. What little I have withheld, you have not questioned. Even during a gross lapse in judgment, I have never intended to mislead or harm you. Will you hold the baron’s actions against me, or will you sit on the damn chair and let me tend your wounds?”

He conceded, and stifled a groan as he moved onto the seat. Victoria knelt behind him and began slathering the cool salve on his back. Though the pain on contact was great, it was quickly replaced by a mere dull ache. A powerful botanical scent led by notes of pine tar and mint filled the room as she smeared it into his blistered skin. He attempted to scratch some parts coated, but she swatted his hands away. The salve dried quickly and cracked, and he shifted uncomfortably, hands gripping the edge of the stool to keep from scratching. Victoria rubbed the dried clumps off with the rag, leaving his back irritated and red, with only some minor scarring.

“Martin,” she began, softly and solemnly, “what are we?”

He shivered, and drew a deep breath before arranging the syllables like fine glass. “I am your servant, Lady Victoria, and you are my mistress.”

This did not provoke, but it failed to placate.

“It is not so simple,” she retorted, “but I do not wish it to be.”

“What do you want, then?”

She stood, and began wiping the jar with the rag. He turned and saw her eyes were upon it, but she was not looking at it. “I am unsure. I thought I wanted you as a lover. I still do, but I also want something more, something I cannot yet place.”

The air between them was still for some time, before she spoke again.

“I do not know you, either, Martin. When I look at you, I do not see a killer, or the lover I had hoped you to be. I scarcely see a man at all.” Her tone became condescending. “Could you be a leaf, longing for the branch from which the wind willed you?”

His lips tightened, and his brow creased in a pained scowl. “My longing doesn’t matter.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Despite this, you are a killer. Why?”

His breath quickened, and his fists clenched the edge of the stool.

“Martin?”

His cheeks burned, and hot tears poured forth.

“What troubles you?” Her condescension was replaced with concern.

He sighed, and the tension left his body. “Nothing I can make right.”

She watched him wipe his cheeks for several long moments. “Would you… like a hug?”

His teary eyes stated his apprehension, but she held her arms out earnestly. He stood and stepped into her arms, and as she wrapped him in her hug he let her. After a few heartbeats, he embraced her in kind, and nestled himself against her breast. She pulled him in more snugly, and he held on tightly.

“What do you see when you look at me, Lady Victoria?”

She pursed her lips in thought. “I see several things I wish you to be, which oppose one another: a servant, a partner; a lover...” she trailed off, barely speaking above a whisper, “a son.”

She ran her fingers through his hair, and he drew a deep breath.

“What do you see in me?”

He took much longer to prepare his answer. “Sometimes, my mother.”

She looked surprised, but only a little. “Why is that?”

He sank further into her chest and thought it through. “Kind, sometimes frightening… it’s hard to say. It’s like you live in a different world. She was like that, too. She saw things I didn’t.”

“She was? Did she change?”

He bristled at this question. “She died.”

“Oh.” Her petting hand froze. “My condol—“

“I killed her.”

Victoria mulled this over in silence. “Will you kill me?”

He frowned and tightened his grip on her. “I don’t want to.”

“Then it matters not.”

Fresh tears stained her blouse. A hand held him against her chest. Neither of them attempted to change this.


End file.
